The goblin king rose, his thick legs struggling to support his massive belly. They crushed the goblins he'd been using as a footstool, and they yelped and groaned. He towered over a dozen feet above, casting dark shadows that shift and roll with forces you do not wish to meet.
The rotting stench of the king reaches your nose. You fight hard to restrain yourself from gagging. It smells of fish, rotting animals, old eggs, skunk, and earth.
He hoists one leg in front of the other, his warty chin swaying with his stomach. He rumbles and thunders and grumbles and groans. His monstrous, bellowing roars echo through the impossibly enormous chasm.
Thousands of feet in all directions, every surface covered in goblins of every size. The sound of a hundred chattering crowds does nothing to drown the king's almighty cries. They stomp and screech and toss and climb; they fill every space and cover every surface.
The king stood tall, his sharp, grubby crown bringing his height up another foot or so. He raises his wobbling, lumpy, slightly greenish arms. As his fingers spread, every goblin is silenced.
After a brief moment of still and quiet, he begins sucking in air, filling his lungs. His belly is reminiscent of a gigantic balloon. He holds his breath. Then, his cavernous mouth full of crooked, fuzzy teeth opens wide.
"Clap, snap, the black crack
Grip, grab, pinch, and nab
Batter and beat
Make 'em stammer and squeak!
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town"
His booming voice reverberated through the chasm. Stalagtites shook, sending dirt and gravel showering down. The rope bridges tied to and from the platform swayed. After the verse was sung, every goblin repeated the last line. The clattering echo seemed deafening.
"With a swish and smack
And a whip and a crack
Everybody talks when they're on my rack
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town"
The king lumbered in circles in front of his throne, kicking the footstool goblins off the edge. They seem to never hit the bottom, screeching at the top of their lungs all the way down. As the goblin king stomps, the torches flicker, threatening to go out. Once again, the goblins repeat the last line, yammering and yelping and cackling and cawing.
"Hammer and tongs, get out your knockers and gongs
You won't last long on the end of my prongs
Clash, crash, crush and smash
Bang, break, shiver and shake"
He bellows and chants, stomps his massive feet and shakes his wobbling chin. He swings the massive staff he holds, around and around, sweeping it just above our heads. His eyes roll, his tongue flaps, and his grubby loincloth flaps and twirls.
"You can yammer and yelp
But there ain't no help
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town"
He finishes his song with great grandeur, powerful and strong. The goblins repeat the last line louder than ever, cackling and laughing and climbing all over eachother. The king plants his feet firmly with a great rumble, and leans down over us, supporting himself with his staff. The last echoes of his song shudder through the cavern, rattling our bones.
"Well," he begins, his overpowering breath sweeping over us. He stares us each down, chuckling at the rope tying our arms together in a line, his massive face uncomfortably close. "Welcome to Goblin Town."
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
